


Heretic Pride

by casuallyneurotic



Series: Maybe Sprout Wings Universe [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abduction, Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beta Gabriel (Supernatural), But he's not evil, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel is a good guy, Castiel to the Rescue (Supernatural), Cruelty, Gabriel is a dick, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Omega Balthazar (Supernatural), Prostitution, Rescue, Sadism, Unreliable Narrator, Unwilling Ownership, but NOT the fun kind, his brothers... not so much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29622093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casuallyneurotic/pseuds/casuallyneurotic
Summary: Gabriel has never wanted a slave, really.Compared to his older brothers, that could easily get him labeled as an anarchist.This is a prequel/spin off from a different and ongoing story,Maybe Sprout Wings. I think you can read it without having read that pretty easily, but if you'd like to know what happens after this story, you can go check that one out. :)
Relationships: Balthazar & Castiel (Supernatural), Balthazar & Gabriel (Supernatural)
Series: Maybe Sprout Wings Universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176434
Comments: 160
Kudos: 162





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends!
> 
> I assume that most of you are here from MSW, but perhaps there's a few newcomers. If so, welcome! I hope you enjoy this prequel. As I said in the summary, I *think* you can read this and have it make logical sense if you haven't read _Maybe Sprout Wings,_ but I could of course be wrong. 
> 
> A couple of things - there are no romantic relationships in this story. If that's what you came for, I'm sorry! You probably won't enjoy this bad boy very much. There IS quite a bit of angst, and some round-about hurt comfort. And, please folks, mind the tags. This fic - and this first chapter especially - is quite sad/brutal in places and could easily be triggering. If you're unsure, please don't chance it! Your mental health is more important.
> 
> Big BIG shout-out to HesitateDisintegrate for helping me! They betaed and encouraged me and without them this fic would be nowhere near completion. Give them some love!!

Gabriel has never wanted a slave, really. 

Compared to his older brothers, that could easily get him labeled as an anarchist. His old man wouldn’t be pleased to hear that he isn’t exactly a _huge_ fan of the whole subjugate-people-against-their-will thing. And his mother – bless her cold, dead heart – probably would have fainted onto a chaise lounge or something equally nauseating, had she ever heard what he really thinks about their family business. Luckily, Gabriel doesn’t really care about other people’s opinions, least of all his family’s. 

But speaking up, he’s learned, paints a target on his forehead, and he really likes his brains where they are. Likes his money, too, and that would have vanished in a puff of smoke if his father had ever figured out he had no intentions of carrying on the family legacy. 

So, he’s silenced that part of himself. Has effectively ignored the ringing of the “That’s Kinda Fucked Up, Isn’t It?” alarm that’s buried deep inside of him. And, when the sight of some poor unfortunate with a collar knocks on the door of his questionably present soul, he has never once answered.

But, thanks to the all-American one-two punch of a heart attack and stroke, Daddy Dearest is dead as a goddamn doornail. So Gabriel doesn’t really have to do shit, anymore. 

He leans back on the wall with a sigh, wishing he’d been as smart as Castiel had when Michael had invited them all to this so-called memorial. The little jerk had oh-so-regretfully declined to attend, his excuse as rock-solid, diplomatic, and _polite_ as it was completely fabricated. He’d shown his surly face at the funeral, shaken a few hands, and poofed. 

Michael hadn’t given a shit, not really. He’d only been invited as a courtesy – their half-brother has no real ties to their father, other than that all-important sperm donation that put him on the inheritance list in the first place. Dear Old Dad himself had sent him off to boarding school a few states away as soon as he legally could. Castiel had grown up all by his lonesome in the countryside, no one but tutors and nannies for company.

Lucky bastard. 

Gabriel himself hasn’t seen his twin brothers in years, not since they flew off to the land of tea and crumpets to expand the family empire. Gabriel, on the other hand, had been content to move to the other side of the States, blow his monthly allowance on drugs and parties, and average out of college with a solid 2.0 – albeit a couple years late. 

Doesn’t matter now. A degree is pointless, he figures, since he could live the rest of his life on the interest of his inheritance alone. And he fully intends to. Why work for what he already has?

People he doesn’t know – doesn’t _care_ to know – mill about the ostentatious room, mingling and simpering and sidling up to his brothers in neat little lines. No one knows who he is, and those who do have correctly interpreted his double-fisted grip on a pair of champagne glasses as a flashing _fuck off_ sign. He up-ends one of them into his mouth with an eye roll when another wanna-be socialite expresses their _deepest_ sympathies in the same breath that they complement Lucifer’s Louboutins.

The night drags on. Most people leave after Michael and Lucifer drift off into the backrooms. At some point, Gabriel gets tired of people watching, and makes a game of how obvious he can be before one of the few remaining stragglers figures out he’s insulting them. When a man adds two and two and turns absolutely _puce_ with rage, Gabriel takes it as his cue to find somewhere else to be. He downs what has to be his tenth glass of champagne, grabs two more, and goes to find a back room to get even drunker in. 

He stumbles, tipsy, into what he’s forgotten was his father’s office. It’s not as deserted as he’d like it to be. Michael is already here, holding court with a gaggle of important looking tools in dark suits, a fire crackling in the fireplace and casting them all in dramatic lighting. He’s got his feet kicked up on their father’s desk as though it belongs to him, because – oh, right. It does. Michael got the grounds here in the States, and Lucifer got the shit overseas.

“Gabe!” he crows, a warmth to his gaze that would fool anyone who hadn’t grown up in the same household as the man. “I was just telling these gentlemen what a treat this is for me and Luce, having you here tonight. Isn’t it grand to get the family back together like this after so long, despite the occasion?”

Gabriel grins, hoping it doesn’t look like a grimace. “Oh, it’s a certifiable delight. The champagne really made the eight hour flight worth it.” 

Laughter as loud as it is fake, Michael dismisses his flock of admirers with a gallant wave of his hand. They laugh with him, flushed and starry-eyed under his attention, and then promptly scatter like roaches. No one wants to risk getting on his brother’s bad side, as usual. 

Michael gives him a once-over from his desk, his expensive shoes bouncing gently. “You’re hiding, little brother,” he says indulgently, gesturing for one of the glasses that Gabriel has worked very hard to not drink for the last five minutes. He hands it over, figuring it isn’t worth the fight, and his brother takes a much too reasonable sip as Gabriel drops himself into a nearby chair and fights not to massage his temples. 

He rolls his eyes at Michael’s pointed, unimpressed look. “What did you expect me to do, Mikey? You know this isn’t really my scene.”

Michael hums. “Yes. I suppose there’s too few strippers about the place.” He gestures expansively with his glass at the luxurious paintings and books that decorate the shelves of their childhood home, lifeless and dusty now that their father has finally kicked it. “Plenty of grime, though, which seems more your speed.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. That little jibe is nowhere near what it would take to actually piss him off. And Michael knows it – he has a pleasantly cold smile affixed to his face. This is just his usual game, one that Gabriel knows exactly how to play.

“You should hire better help,” Gabriel shoots back flippantly, running a finger across a side table with a theatrically raised eyebrow. He rubs the accrued dust off his fingertips with a wrinkled nose. “It’s going to the dogs around here.”

Michael’s smile sharpens into something a bit more predatory. 

_“Hire.”_ He says the word like it’s foreign to him. “That’s quaint.”

“Well, I just meant since the staff is gone, now.” Auctioned off, probably, though he only knows that because he’d noticed a distinct lack of collars among the servers.

Michael cocks his head to the side. “I suppose you didn’t hear?”

Gabriel tilts his chin back, scratches at his neck like he’s bored. He sort of is. Mikey always has to be so goddamn cloak-and-dagger. But he recognizes the little gleam in his older brother’s eye – it’s a sparkle of genuine amusement. Something that never fails to put his head on a swivel, because most of the things that his older brothers tend to find _funny_ could fit comfortably into a Spanish inquisitor’s playbook. 

“Don’t keep me in suspense,” he says, ignoring the insistent little voice in the back of his head that’s screaming _you don’t want to know_. “What’s the latest family fiasco that I’ve missed out on?”

Michael scoffs. “Nothing so dramatic. I suppose I should be glad it hasn’t reached you. It seems the legal team has actually done a decent job of keeping it all… hush hush.” 

Gabriel bites his tongue. He swirls his champagne. Forces his attention elsewhere in the room, making it clear to his brother that he isn’t going to play whatever game this is. 

“One of Father’s slaves,” he continues dispassionately, as though he’s discussing the weather, “very nearly escaped.”

That _does_ get his attention. He sits up straight. “Really?” Slaves attempting to do a runner is nearly unheard of, these days – not with that handy little chip in their collars that Daddy-dearest had been so proud of. And slaves making a break for it _here…_ it just doesn’t happen. 

Michael smiles victoriously, well aware that he’s got Gabriel hook, line, and sinker. “Oh, yes. The little whore cut its collar and everything. It was quite the manhunt, for a moment there.”

Something does a nervous little dance inside him at his brother’s choice of words. It isn’t exactly promising that he’s calling the slave a whore. If he knows Michael, he isn’t just being rude. Gabriel hadn’t known his father had still _had_ slaves like that. It makes something uncomfortable squirm in his stomach – something he pushes away as fast and as hard as he can.

“But they were caught, I assume?” he asks, already knowing the answer. Michael wouldn’t have brought it up, otherwise. Too embarrassing.

“Yes.” His brother speaks like a serial killer running a reverent finger down his favorite knife. “Can’t have a stain on the family record, after all. People would talk.”

“Right.” His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his palms. He’s not sure why. Gabriel doesn’t care what happens to the slaves here, really. Despite where their fortune had originated in the first place, their father had mostly treated them like staff. Minus the pay, or the ability to quit, obviously. His reasoning, both for his family and for the press, had always been that a man should take _proper_ and _responsible_ care of his possessions, and they would function better as a result.

That had made it fantastically easy for Gabriel to pretend the possessions in question didn’t exist. Especially when he’d moved away.

He’d barely spared them a thought when he got the news that his dad had croaked. They’d been auctioned off immediately, far as he knew, whatever money they’d garnered a drop in the bucket of their divvied up inheritance. “I figured they’d all been sold.”

Michael’s smile widens. “Oh, the rest were. But Luce had a certain... _fondness_ , for that one,” he says, like they’re talking about one of his dad’s Fiskars rather than a human. “Father acquired it on a foray to London, ages ago. He knew of Lucifer’s desire for it, of course. Added it to the will accordingly.”

Despite his carefully cultivated apathy, Gabriel can’t help the instinctive shiver of sympathy. He’s certain that belonging to either of his older brothers would be an… _unfortunate_ life, even by a slave’s usual standards. It makes sense that they would have tried to run, knowing they’d be passed down to Lucifer.

“How… sweet,” he tries, grimacing. “I’m guessing they weren’t a _huge_ fan of the idea?”

His brother laughs. “As though it _matters,_ ” he guffaws, like Gabriel has said something outlandish and hilarious. “But I suppose not. It did try awfully hard to escape Lucifer’s grounds. Got quite close, in fact.”

Jesus. Poor bastard must have been desperate. “Bet Lulu didn’t like that much.”

Michael cocks his head to the side with a little smile. “No, he did not. Wanted to be rid of the thing, actually, and one can certainly understand why. Can’t have a misbehaving little cretin besmirching the family’s reputation, or sparking ideas in the heads of the others.”

Gabriel relaxes. “So he sold him? Sayonara, slave, it’s been a real hoot?”

Michael’s teeth gleam white in the low light, just a little too sharp to be comfortable. “Not quite.”

His stomach sinks. “Oh?”

“He was certainly intending to. He knew of a few buyers who would have enjoyed… retiring it.” 

Gabriel’s stomach lurches, and he’s positive he goes a little green around the gills, but Michael is too busy waxing poetic about himself to notice. “Luckily, I convinced him otherwise. He couldn’t have his other slaves thinking that they could get away with his sort of behavior and getting off so lightly, you see.” 

Michael’s eyes glitter. Gabriel swallows at the implication that being _retired_ is apparently too _light_ of a punishment in his brother’s twisted little brain. The alpha smirks at him like he knows what he’s thinking. “He passed it along to me instead. My…” he smirks, “request.” 

A creeping sort of dread slides down Gabriel’s spine. He swears to God that Michael can _smell_ his discomfort, despite his cultivated expertise in hiding it. He lounges like a satisfied lion on his throne, smug. Licking blood off his chops. 

He graces Gabriel with a bright, dangerous smile, the firelight casting odd shadows on his grin as he claps his hands together. “Perhaps you’d like to see the progress I’ve made?”

No. No he would _not_ like to see. Every single instinct inside of him is banging pots and pans together and bellowing at him to make damn _sure_ he doesn’t see. But he’s well aware that saying as much would mean unquestionably losing whatever game Michael’s playing with him. That he’d be failing some sort of test.

He’s not, precisely, afraid of his brother. But lack of fear is not lack of common sense – Michael can, and _will,_ make his life a living hell if he thinks it’s necessary. If it would help the Morningstar name, or his own reputation. He has always gone after the blood in the water, has always rooted out weakness with ruthless efficiency, doing whatever he decided needed to be done. 

He’s made it clear in the past that he’d thought their father had been too lax with Gabriel. Has never made a secret of it – though, at the time, it hadn’t really mattered. Michael had only so much power, and Gabriel had all the protection he needed from his dad. Aside from a few spectacular fights, nothing has come of it.

It’s beginning to dawn on him that Michael, suddenly, has quite a bit _more_ power. And Gabriel has quite a bit _less_ protection.

So he shrugs, kicks back in his seat, and crosses one leg over the other. Folds his hands behind his head. “Alright, Mikey, I’ll humor you. I know how you love to show off your toys.” 

Michael smirks, and Gabriel gets the distinct feeling that he’s lost this game after all. But it’s too late now. 

“Go on, then,” his brother says, voice disarmingly pleasant. His feet drop down from the desk and he swivels to the side, and for a moment, Gabriel thinks he’s talking to him; he looks up, confused. 

The bottom of his stomach drops out. 

The slave inches into view from behind the desk. Kneels unsteadily with his blond head bowed low, arms behind his back, held together with a pair of ornate, delicate cuffs. He’s wearing clothes, thank God, though of course it’s some skimpy little lace-and-sparkle thing that barely covers him. It does little to hide the bruises, black and blue smudges all over his pale skin.

There’s a circular, open gag in his mouth, holding his teeth apart. A trail of spittle on his chin. His chest. 

Gabriel is staring. Distantly, he realizes that the best course of action, right now, would be to get up and book it as fast as he fucking can.

The slave would probably be thinking the same thing – would probably be trying to _do_ that, if he could – but his pupils are tiny pin-pricks of drugged out stupor. He’s staring blankly at the floor, eyes glassy. _Terrified,_ despite whatever cocktail of tranquilizers Michael’s got him on; he’s trembling all over, muscles jumping and twitching even in the warm, hazy air. 

Gabriel has never been more glad to be a beta. The stench of this omega’s distress has got to be _horrific,_ and his hatred for the leeches that he’s had to mingle with all night flares and intensifies. How many of those fucking alphas had known by scent _alone_ that this man was here? How many had fucking ignored him, had gone on their merry way, content to let him suffer because he’s _just_ a slave?

How many of them had… taken advantage?

And God, Gabriel can’t stop _staring –_ especially at the evidence of the slave’s escape attempt _._ Under a too-tight collar, cinched higher than it should be, his neck is _cracked_. Dark. Oozing clear fluid, and a little blood, in a perfect ring of ruined flesh.

Burned. 

Apparently, the slave isn’t moving fast enough for his brother’s standards. With his head in his hand, _bored,_ Michael nudges him in the ribs in the exact same way a young, budding psychopath would poke at roadkill. The omega hitches in a broken breath, jerks to the side like he’s been hit with a cattle prod. Tries to put as much distance between himself and his _master_ as possible with frantic movements that are threatening to make Gabriel sick on the carpet.

Michael glances down with a faint air of disappointment, otherwise entirely indifferent. “The little slut still hasn’t quite remembered its place, unfortunately. It knows better than to move without my permission.”

With a swift and clinical movement, not even rising from his chair, he kicks the slave’s back and knocks him down on his belly. As if he wasn’t already broken, as if he was any sort of threat at _all–_ Then, to make matters worse, the slave makes the unforgivable mistake of letting a choked noise of pain out of his mouth, makes the terrible transgression of _cringing away,_ his eyes closed and hands struggling against his binds.

That’s disobedience enough, apparently, to warrant Michael putting his _foot_ on his _neck._

The omega stills. Instantly. Chest barely daring to heave. Gabriel thinks he must be standing just as still, at this moment – thinks that, beta or not, he can smell the intensity of the man’s fear, acrid and sick.

“Though, I don’t think he’ll try and run again,” Michael continues conversationally. Unhurried. As if he’s not holding the life of a human under the toe of his oxford. 

Gabriel tries to form words around whatever is stuck in his windpipe. Tries, hysterically, to laugh this off, tries to slither his way out of the room like he’s done countless times whenever he sensed bad shit like this was about to happen. But he can’t. 

He can’t. 

“Something wrong, Gabriel?” 

His mouth is dry. Heart thudding slowly in his chest, sluggish, like he’s a little animal hiding from a bigger one. He swallows. 

“He’s–”

Shit, _no._ That’s not right. He sounds too much like he gives a damn.

 _“It’s._ Um. It’s a pretty th-thing, isn’t it?”

Shit, shit, _shit._ His voice is shaking. He swallows again, tries to still the trembling of his hands, the nausea twisting his stomach into pretzel shapes while his brother’s reptilian gaze rests on him with all the comfort of a noose.

“I suppose. Luce liked it well enough. Not that a slut with such lapsed training is worth much.”

He leans forward, applies pressure to the man’s burn – the omega _dry-heaves_ with pain, hands clawing against the air as he struggles uselessly against the chain holding his arms behind him. Michael glances down at him with detached interest, his eyes slicing into the slave’s body like he’s skinning him. “Father _did_ buy it as a pet, but he had little use for it in his later years – so it’s quite out of practice, you see.” He frowns thoughtfully. “And a little old for me, to be frank.” 

Gabriel is going to be _sick._ He finally tears his eyes away, looks _anywhere_ else, hors d'oeuvres and far too much alcohol roiling in his stomach as he listens to broken breathing that’s morphing into something closer to sobbing the longer they sit there. Words that might be _please, please, please_ , if his brother had allowed the poor bastard to speak.

“I’ll – if you don’t want it,” Gabriel finds his mouth saying, entirely without his permission, “I’ll take it off your hands. Need some help around the bachelor pad, these days. Some,” _ugh,_ “company.”

Michael blinks laconically, pupils so wide that his eyes are nearly black. Gabriel can’t meet his gaze, can’t stomach the tangible proof that he is getting _off._ On _this._

He thinks, for the very first time, about Michael’s omega wife. He’s never met her. He doesn’t ever want to.

“Who says I don’t want it?” his brother asks, tone deceptively, _devastatingly_ soft. 

Gabriel very nearly lets the panic into his voice, _very_ nearly goes _completely_ _insane_ and stands up to shove Michael back away from the prostrated, twitching body on the floor. Instead, he forces himself to shrug. “You said it yourself – it’s too old, and I know that a busy guy like you doesn’t have the time to train it up right anyway.” 

Michael says nothing, dark eyes hooded low as he listens dispassionately. Gabriel tries again, desperation creeping into his voice. “You’ve got plenty of toys, Mikey, come _on._ Lemme play with that one. I’ve got a thing for blondes, you know.”

He hates how fucking indifferent he sounds. How easy it is to play this game, to pretend that he wants anything to do with what’s happening in front of him. Hates that Michael _smiles_ at him, crocodile-wide and just as sincere. 

“Why, Gabe,” he marvels, voice velvet smooth. “I didn’t know you had it in you. Father always said you were too soft for it.”

Gabriel wrenches the muscles of his face into the right positions. Screws his grin in place with nuts and bolts. “Is that some beta discrimination I hear in your voice, bro?”

“Of course not,” Michael soothes, taking a long sip of his champagne. The slave isn’t moving anymore. His eyes are glazed over, a puddle of drool slowly forming under him. There are tear tracks down his face, over the bridge of his nose. “I’m well aware that even your designation has... _needs.”_

“Oodles and oodles,” he agrees, voice awful and flippant. He can’t tear his eyes away. “Just bucketfuls of need right here.”

Michael gives him an indulgent, almost _parental_ smile. “The slut is disobedient,” he says delicately, “but with a firm hand, it’s quite adept. Quite…” He licks his lips; a blatant, perhaps unintentional betrayal of his interest. “Proficient.” 

Oh, _fuck._ Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

He feels like his mind has vacated his skull. Like someone could slice his skin off with a vegetable peeler, and he’d feel nothing at all. His own voice sounds far away. Someone else must be talking, right? “Am I gonna get a discount for used goods?” 

Michael chuckles at that. “Cheeky.” He claps his hands together. “You’ll take him,” he decides, suspiciously _sudden,_ “as a gift, and a challenge. I’m looking forward to seeing you break in your first slave, Gabriel. It’s high time.” 

He shrugs after he glances down, as though he’s forgotten the slave in question is _still_ _under his shoe._ “Though I dare say I’ve done most of the work.”

Gabriel nods distractedly, too numb to respond to that, too numb to do much of anything except try desperately _not to look._ And try to hide the realization that he’s just been fucking played. Michael knows _exactly_ what he’s doing. 

Michael stands, then, one last warning tap that produces a broken, choked cry from the slave, and an automatic flinch from Gabriel. The omega curls into himself minutely when the alpha steps away, shaking, eyes fixed on nothing. Hands flexing rhythmically behind him.

He _just_ manages not to jerk when his brother’s hand lands on his shoulder. His gaze is almost _proud,_ and Gabriel knows he’s going to need to shower for about a week to get rid of that slimy feeling. “Thank you for coming. I know Father would be pleased to see his sons here, carrying his torch forward.”

Gabriel just nods. Nods and nods, like he gives one single flying _fuck_ what a bastard like his dad would want. Like he wants any of this at all. 

“The paperwork’s on my desk,” his brother is saying, giving his shoulder what Gabriel is sure is supposed to be a friendly squeeze. “I took the liberty of drafting up its contract yesterday. Lucky for you, no one has signed just yet – though I did have a few people tell me they were interested this evening, after a test drive!” The words are light, teasing. There’s a glint in Michael’s eye that tells Gabriel he genuinely thinks he’s being funny.

Come to think of it, Gabriel is _terrified_ of his brother. Michael grins like he’s plucked the thought right out of his head.

“Family comes first, after all.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me friends, but the MSW update is going to be a day late T-T your girl is exhausted. I hope this tides y'all over in the meantime...

As has become Balthazar's usual, _everything_ hurts.

His jaw aches. His throat is dry, and his tongue feels like a foreign object in his mouth. His wrists, though he can’t really feel them, are probably scraped raw by the cuffs. His shoulders twinge painfully, pulsing with his heartbeat along with his bruises. His head feels like it might split in two. The space between his legs aches like one big wound. 

Sluggishly, he catalogues these quantifiable, manageable pains. Visualizes them in his mind’s eye, turns them over like shiny coins. If he loses focus, he’ll have to think about the burning circle of flesh around his neck. He’ll have to choke on remembered pain and lingering, sharp agony.

Really, it’s more likely that his brain will just… turn off. Again. Overloaded to the point where the breaker pops, so to speak. That’s what had happened earlier, when Michael had stepped on the wound. 

It’s what had happened when he’d cut his own collar, too. He’s still not sure how he managed to make it past the treeline. 

Distantly, he becomes aware that there is someone else in the room with him. He can’t seem to make himself care. His master has gone, his choking scent and horrible touch along with him, and that means he’s safe. Safe enough. No pack of alphas here, not anymore. He has time to rest, for what feels like the first time in days. 

For a while, Balthazar can do nothing by lay there, dragging in breaths like a beached fish now that the air is clear of alphas. The straps from the stupid little lacy get-up he’s wearing dig into his ribs as they expand. He wonders if that means he’s not allowed to breathe like this. 

After what feels like quite a long time, there’s a rustle nearby. A few footsteps.

Balthazar’s hands slump to his sides, useless. Limp. It’s a moment before that registers, before he understands someone has unlocked the handcuffs. The metal that had held his arms behind him for so long that the pins and needles stopped some time ago is finally gone. 

He’d like to wrap his arms around himself, he thinks. Would like to hold his own body in his arms and squeeze until he can feel himself again. 

He doesn’t.

There’s a hand on his jaw, feeling around his mouth and the back of his head, and he _whines,_ but the touch and the scent is beta. It’s _beta,_ and betas don’t usually hurt him. Not always the case – sadism doesn’t depend on designation – but it’s a general rule, and it’s been a _safe_ rule for the past week. Michael didn’t really associate with betas. Too far above them, probably. 

He can’t protest, anyway. Can’t do anything. 

A few moments and fumbling touches later, the ring leaves his mouth for the first time in a few days. Whoever unlocked his cuffs pulls it free and Balthazar thinks he hears it hitting the wooden floor a few feet away. 

He’s grateful. He could _cry,_ he’s so grateful. But his jaw is too tired even to close, let alone give thanks. He just breathes, lips nearly touching, his face sticky and cold on the hard wooden floor.

Someone is talking. Maybe to him, or at least about him. The world outside of his pain is blurry, indistinct. Unimportant. He feels someone touching his face again, a few insistent pats that aren’t, surprisingly, painful. He flinches back anyway. For once, the touch doesn’t follow. 

Balthazar tries to pay attention. To make himself focus. He opens his eyes, blinking until the images in front of him sort of make sense. The man from earlier is leaning over him, the shadows from the fire flickering over his face. 

His master’s… brother. The younger one, the beta. He shudders, hitches in a breath – of course it would be another fucking _brother._ Another man to hurt him, another of the Morningstar family that will probably take whatever he’s got left to give. He doesn’t know if he’s on loan or if he’s been _gifted_ again. Can’t remember the tail end of their conversation. He thinks he passed out, or something close. 

It’s been hard to tell the difference, really. The only separation between consciousness and unconsciousness, as of late, has been pain. 

“Hey. _Hey._ Come on, dude.” The man’s eyes are wide, his voice an unpleasantly sharp spear in Balthazar’s already pounding skull. “Snap out of it. We gotta get the hell out of here.” 

Balthazar can only blink, slow and uncomprehending. The words wash over him like waves on sand. 

It’s been a… _rough_ week. To say the least.

Gabriel – that’s his name. He can remember that, at least, though he’s never spoken a word to the man. Gabriel makes a face, his eyes flicking around nervously. “Pretty sure the bastard’s gone, alright? So we gotta _go._ As in, pronto, before that changes, ‘cause he’s gonna want to see me treat you a _little_ different if he catches us, and I don’t really feel like being a dick to you when you already look like that.” 

The words make _absolutely_ no sense at all. He tries to put them into order in his head, but the sentences keep collapsing. Card towers in the wind. Balthazar gives up after a spell and decides to focus _all_ his attention on breathing. The beta makes a frustrated noise.

There are hands under Balthazar’s still prickling arms, and he’s being hauled into a rough sitting position that has his head spinning like a top. As doped up as he is, he just follows the man’s pull limply, unable to do anything else. Whatever drug his master’s been feeding him for the past few days is something that has made him quite dizzy and stupid, but has oh so _graciously_ allowed him to still feel every inch of what’s been done to him. 

What he did to himself, with a pair of stolen tin-snips and an _unforgivable_ lack of foresight. 

“Shit,” the brother curses to himself, repeating the word when Balthazar instinctively flinches away from the sound of his ire and teters backwards. The beta struggles to keep his limp body upright, gritting his teeth. _“Shit.”_

If he could string two bloody thoughts together, Balthazar might have snapped out a dangerously snarky apology about how terribly _inconvenient_ it must be that he’s too drugged to _sit_. As it is, he simply makes a noise that sounds far too close to a whine when Gabriel tries, and fails, to tug him to his feet – he falls forward into the beta’s chest and nearly lands on his face, saved only by Gabriel stumbling back to the ground with him instead of letting him fall.

“Can’t you stand? Come on, you… Christ. Stand _up,”_ he commands. 

Balthazar tries. He really does. He drags his legs under him, makes a passable attempt at rising. But he… can’t. He just can’t. Doesn’t matter how much he wants it – his brain simply isn’t communicating with his limbs. It seems that this is one of those orders that are set up to be impossible to follow, one that guarantees punishment no matter what. Apparently, it’s the favorite family pastime. 

He waits, breath catching in his chest, for another kick to the ribs, but the beta doesn’t lash out. He just grumbles something inaudible to himself, grabs hold a little more firmly, and hauls him up with a grunt. “Jesus, you’re heavy. Or maybe I haven’t been to the gym enough.” 

Balthazar blinks, surprised to find himself on his feet. He stays standing this time, somehow.

The beta tugs him forward, clearly wanting him to start walking. Almost immediately, the world begins to spin. He closes his eyes again, worried that he’s going to puke up whatever’s gone down his throat in the last few hours. Nothing pleasant. It’ll be even _less_ pleasant for him if it lands on the beta’s shoes – he’s not interested in getting the shit kicked out of him again. 

He breathes through the nausea, head lolling, the world coming in and out of focus around him. 

“Dude, we have to _go,”_ someone says into his ear. He jerks to the side before he remembers that it’s Gabriel – he hadn’t known the beta was that close. Which is bloody stupid, because he’s leaning on the man like a drunken lover, but. Again. He’s not exactly in tip-top shape. 

“Walk. _Waaalk,”_ Gabriel enunciates slowly, like he’s a child, like Balthazar doesn’t desperately want to do exactly that. The beta pushes him forward insistently. “One foot in front of the other.” 

Strange that Gabriel wants him on his feet, he thinks. The other two – the twins. They didn’t want him going anywhere if he wasn’t on his hands and knees. But, somehow, they’re moving, Gabriel still mostly dragging his dead weight. 

Out the door. Down the hall. Through a larger room, then an even _larger_ room, the furniture and the lights indistinct and fuzzy around him, statues and paintings and furniture that he’s been living with for years completely unrecognizable. He should be wondering where they’re going, probably. Should be worrying about it. But all he can concentrate on is trying not to slip out of the man’s grip again. The marble hurts like a bitch against the knees, and he’s in enough pain as it is. 

The air is suddenly cooler. There’s a soft breeze against his face. 

They’re outside.

He doesn’t realize he’s fighting until his elbow makes swift contact with a soft stomach. Gabriel grunts, drops him like a rucksack. Balthazar hits the gravel of the front drive with a lurch of terror, rocks digging into his knees and palms and spraying backwards as he tries to scramble away.

“What the _fuck?”_ Gabriel demands from behind him, but Balthazar hardly hears him. He’s too busy trying to get back inside. Back inside, back inside, back _inside._

The beta is having none of it – he drags him by the waist, yanks him back away from the double doors they’ve just walked out of. He feels like a lead weight, but whatever strength he has left is thrown into his legs and his fists as he slams himself away from the beta, trying to keep him at bay with scrabbling feet and hands, desperate to go _back. Inside_. He’s _not supposed to be outside._ Never, never again, never as long as he lives. Not unless he wants to be burned again, _punished_ again, and he can’t take it, not so soon–

“God _dammit,”_ Gabriel growls. 

Then the beta’s hand mashes inelegantly into the hollow space above his collar, with all the subtlety of a piano crashing down from a balcony. 

The fight leaves him so fast that a black hole forms in the vacuum. He finds himself on his hands and knees again, forehead touching the sharp gravel. Someone is making an _awful_ keening noise. 

The hand on his neck snaps away like it’s been burned, and suddenly he can breathe again, can _see_ again. He takes in a shuddering breath, tears he had no idea he was crying blurring his vision as he stares down at the gravel and rocks back and forth. He’s going to vomit. He’s going to– 

“Christ. _Christ._ I – I’m, I don’t – shit. We have to _go,_ man.” 

Balthazar hardly understands him, the world dropping in and out of focus as he hyperventilates. 

“You don’t want to stay here, take it from me. He’ll fucking – he’ll kill you, probably, or _worse._ So get _up.”_

“Can’t,” he pleads. The word barely makes sense, barely sounds like _anything,_ his throat so dry and his jaw so sore that he can’t speak properly. _“Can’t.”_

“You _can,_ and you fucking _will,”_ Gabriel snaps. He shoves him none-too-gently, grabs the front of his lingerie and yanks him up out of his bow so fast his vision whites out – when it comes back, he finds that he’s kneeling, staring straight up into the beta’s furious hazel eyes as he stands above him.

“You aren’t his anymore,” Gabriel hisses, “and whatever fucked up rules he made up for you can go right in the trash. You’re _mine,_ now,” he says, punctuating the reminder with a rough shake. “So you have to listen to me. You understand?”

He nods without knowing that he’s nodding, overwhelmed, everything screaming at him to _submit_ because if he doesn’t he’s going to be punished _again,_ and the mere thought makes him want to scream. 

Gabriel stares at him for a second more. Then he lets go of the fabric. Before Balthazar can slump down again, though, the beta hooks his hands under his arms and drags him back to his feet. 

He doesn’t even know which way is up, can’t take another step forward – the world is spinning in dizzying circles around him and getting darker by the second. There’s a spasm in his stomach, his vision blacks out completely – he’s puking. Doesn’t even realize it until the beta makes a strangled, horrified noise. He doesn’t drop him, surprisingly – just holds him up at arm’s length as he folds over and heaves, the sick splashing on the gravel with a wet, awful sound. 

It’s about as disgusting as he thought it’d be. 

“Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck,”_ he can hear the beta repeating, once he’s wretched out everything inside of him. 

The man’s voice is shaking. So are his hands, still wrapped around Balthazar’s arms. He’s not sure why the young Morningstar seems so out of sorts, why he’s cursing as though _he’s_ the one being hunted. He’s the safest guest _here._

“Come on. Come _on,”_ he says as he yanks him away from the puddle, an edge to his voice that isn’t quite cruelty. It’s closer to a frantic sort of paranoia. Balthazar tries his absolute best, even though it feels like he’s got cement in his stomach. He mechanically puts his feet on the ground in the right direction and follows his lead as best he is able.

They walk. And walk. He feels the carpeted floor of the car on his knees before he even registers that he’s in one – he thinks Gabriel put him in the seat, but he knows better than to stay there. The door slams shut behind him and he flinches forward, flinches again when the driver side opens and the car jostles. The beta mutters curses to himself as he snaps the gearshift out of park and into reverse, the curses only getting louder when the car stalls and he has to start again. 

The tires squeal, kicking up gravel, and then they’re gone. 

* * *

At first, Gabriel isn’t exactly sure how he’s going to drag the omega into the elevator, up twenty-three floors, and then into his penthouse hotel room without someone calling the fucking cops. He looks like a goddamn serial killer.

Turns out he needn’t have worried. He gets a few stares, but most people take one look at the man’s collar and then let their eyes slide away. A few stop to glare at him – or at Gabriel, it’s hard to tell – but that might be more about him disturbing the peace than any accusations of mistreatment. 

His stomach twists. No one cares. 

That’s never bothered him before, but it sure as fuck does now, and he meets those glares head-on with more of the same. Gabriel is a grade-A dick, but even _he_ is having trouble dealing with the sight of someone that’s been so obviously abused, so obviously hurt when he had no way to defend himself. He’s not sure how _he_ turned into the most sympathetic person in the room, but it seems like he is. 

Gabriel paces. 

The slave – _Balthazar,_ according to his paperwork – is still exactly where he dropped him ten minutes ago. Well, pretty close anyway. He’s leaned up against the foot of the L-shaped couch, kneeling on the ground rather than on the cushions where he’d dumped him on his way to the bathroom to manically wash his hands. It’s the same thing he’d done when Gabriel had tried to shove him into the car – before he could buckle the dude’s seat belt, he’d slid right to the ground. Trained that way, he guesses, and even as high as he is that training sticks. 

Thanks, dad. 

He doesn’t even look up when Gabriel comes back from the bathroom. Doesn’t seem to know he’s there. Gabriel might have mistaken that for well-trained obedience a few hours ago, but his still-sore stomach tells him different. The poor bastard’s just zonked out of his goddamned gourd. The only move he’s made, so far, is to shake; his head lolling forward as he shudders in what Gabriel can only assume to be pain. 

Gabriel has no fucking _idea_ what to do. 

Balthazar’s paperwork is folded in half and shoved in the back pocket of his slacks, creased and messy and _unwanted._ He rips the packet out and tosses it on the bed, nauseous at the sight of it. Despite twenty-six years of perfect, flawless _, intentional_ ignorance, a slaver he has become. 

Damn Michael’s manipulative, sociopathic ass to _hell_. The bastard knew _exactly_ what he was doing, dropping this slave in front of him. There’s a fucking _reason_ he hadn’t wanted to take his brother’s job offer, a _reason_ he’d moved far, far away. It’d been too much to hope for that Mikey would have let him off easy – he should have known there’d be retribution for turning down the family legacy. 

He takes one last look at the paperwork, his fists clenching and unclenching, and then takes a deep breath so he can get the hell over himself. The omega is drugged up to the gills, injured, and terrified. He can’t stand the sight of him.

Gabriel can fix none of those things, not really, but he can… _mitigate_ some of it. Maybe. Shit, he doesn’t know. He can at least give the guy some real clothes – ones that _don’t_ make him look like he wandered out of an omega whorehouse. The damn things were popping seams when he’d grabbed them earlier – he doesn’t exactly think they’re meant for long term wear. Maybe if he tosses them, he’ll be able to look at the dude without wanting to puke.

“Balthazar,” he tries. The omega doesn’t even blink. “Hey. _Balthazar._ Earth to Balthy, come in, Balthy.”

Nothing. He edges closer, a little reluctant to come near the dude again, and waves a hand in front of his face. _That_ produces something – the omega flinches back with a sharp gasp, knocking his shoulder into the sofa. At least it’s soft. Belatedly, his eyes focus in Gabriel’s general direction, pupils still far too tiny. 

“Any clue what he drugged you with?” Gabriel tries, stupidly hopeful. It takes a long few seconds for the question to sink in – Balthy stares up at him blankly for a moment. Then he blinks a few times, makes a visible effort to respond; Gabriel can almost see the cogs turning in his brain when his mouth opens. But he just struggles for a moment, and then shakes his head. 

Gabriel isn’t sure what he would have done with that information, anyway, so he shrugs. “Okay, uh. Well. I don’t know when it’s gonna wear off, so…”

“Few… few hours,” the omega rasps, carefully enunciating the words so they’re mostly understandable. It seems like his mouth is not moving correctly. “I... think. That's wha’... las’ time,” he tries, words slurring more as he goes. He closes his eyes after a few seconds, breathing hard. 

Gabriel blinks, a little surprised that the poor bastard can even scrape his thoughts together enough to express them. Maybe he’s sobering up faster than he thought. “Oh.” 

He hasn’t really planned that far ahead, now that he thinks about it. What _is_ he gonna do when the omega can think again? When he can _fight_ again? Drugged up as he is, he’d still been able to sock Gabriel pretty badly, was _almost_ able to get away. And he’s not stupid enough to assume that Balthazar will voluntarily stick around once he has the mental capacity to try and escape. 

If he’d nearly gotten away from _Lucifer_ – if he’d had the determination he’d need to cut his own fucking collar and then _keep going –_ Gabriel doesn’t think he stands a snowball’s chance in hell at scaring him into compliance. Not that he really wants to, anyway. It’s more that Michael will definitely come after _Gabriel_ if the dude manages to ghost him.

He doesn’t need a fucking slave. Doesn’t _want_ one. But he’s apparently stuck with the bastard, now, because his brother is somehow convinced that a lifetime of avoidance will be solved with _this._ Gabriel doesn’t get it at all. Does Michael really think that the sadistic _challenge_ of training a human being out of their will to survive will interest him? That he’d get _pleasure_ out of beating someone into the dirt, that it will bring him back into the fold?

Gabriel doesn’t _want_ to do that. He doesn’t want _any_ of it – never has. All he’s ever wanted to do is _ignore_ it, so he could do his own thing and not worry about anyone other than himself. And yet, because some demon had possessed him and made him act like a sap at _exactly_ the wrong time, he fell right into it.

Maybe this is just Michael’s way of punishing him for stepping out of line. 

“I don’t even _want_ you,” he snaps, for no other reason than to be spiteful. 

Balthazar simply stares up at him, nothing but sluggish fear in his eyes. 

He swallows around something that feels way too close to guilt for his carefully constructed devil-may-care persona, and gets up to find the stupid complementary robe these joints always come equipped with. 

The omega flinches again when he holds it in front of him, jerks away when Gabriel – _gently,_ he does do it gently _–_ pushes him off of his knees and onto his ass instead. “Just sit down, okay? I don’t give a shit if you kneel. Take this and cover yourself up.” 

Frustration mounts when Balthy doesn’t react to the offer of clothes, just sits there like a doll. “Did Michael _already_ fucking break you, or what?” he mutters to himself, hitching the robe around the man’s shoulders his damn self so he doesn’t have to _look_ anymore. He wonders how many of those bruises came from his brothers. 

Balthazar’s hand jerks up, half robotic, and fumbles for the edges of the robe like he’s finally comprehended what Gabriel wants him to do with it. He holds it closed, eyes on the floor. Rasps out, “Yes.”

Gabriel swallows. 

_Yes._

His brothers did this to someone. Have probably – hell, not probably, _definitely –_ done this to someone before. His brothers had _enjoyed_ this. 

He’d known _Lucifer_ was a sick bastard – the guy had never made any secret of it. But he’d forgotten that Michael was worse. Just… quieter about it. More methodical. Which is somehow more terrifying than the younger twin’s outright aggression. 

Lucifer, at least, would stab him in the _front._

“Well.” 

His voice breaks. 

He stops, closes his eyes. Takes a breath. Gets his shit together, because now isn’t the time to start choking on his newborn conscience.

Reminding _himself_ as much as he’s reminding the omega, he finishes, “Well, you’re mine, now.”

“So… you’ve s-said. Master,” Balthazar breathes, eyes dropping closed again. He curls into himself.

He doesn’t exactly sound pleased about it. Doesn’t sound like he’s aware that Gabriel has rescued him from a _much_ worse fate. In fact, he sounds like he’s gearing up for more of the same treatment he’s been receiving, and _that_ pisses Gabriel off immediately, because he’s _not_ that person, he’s _never been_ that person. And maybe Balthazar has experienced that sort of shit from his brothers, but Gabriel hasn’t done anything to hurt him. 

He hasn’t. And yet, he doesn’t feel any better. 

Gabriel would dump boiling water on his own head if it meant he’d stop feeling like a slimy bastard for even one second. But he’s tired, and he’s frustrated, and he is still kinda drunk if he’s being honest. So he just groans and stands up, moves away from the shattered man on the ground in front of him, and turns around. Puts his hands on his hips, tilts his head back to look at the ceiling. Swallows the nasty taste that being called _master_ has put in his mouth. 

“You can’t run,” he finds himself saying. 

There’s a long pause. Balthazar almost sounds _amused_ when he manages to reply. “No, master.”

He whips around to glare at the man, frustrated, _angry_ at him. He doesn’t even know why he’s angry at him. 

“Listen, you little…” He can’t think of anything insulting to say, for once. Or, he _can,_ but even he can’t stoop that low, pissed off or not. “I mean it. If you book it, I’ll call the fucking cops. I don’t care.”

He does care. He _does._ Fuck _him._

“Wouldn’t… d-dream of it,” the omega rasps, stumbling over the words. And, as glib as it might be meant to seem, he sounds too tired and cowed to be anything but truthful. 

Vague thoughts that Gabriel had been concocting about leashing the man to the leg of the couch fade instantly. The dude isn’t going to run. He doesn’t know how he knows that – but he does. Maybe it’s the way he speaks, maybe it’s the slump of his shoulders, maybe it’s the way his eyes are clenched shut like he’s expecting Gabriel to lash out and kick him any second now. But Gabriel knows, without a doubt, that Balthazar won’t be running again. 

He waits to feel relieved. He never does. 

“Good.” He sounds pathetic, trying to be authoritative. Giving orders has never really been his thing. “I… good.”

Balthazar doesn’t reply. He just keeps leaning against the couch, his entire weight on it like it’s the only thing holding him up. 

It probably is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to let me know what you thought! I thrive off of feedback... :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dearest darlings! I hope you all had a good week. It is now spring break for me, so I'm hoping to get a little more writing done! We'll see how well I stick to that. 
> 
> This chapter is a little distressing, though not as distressing as the one's before. We're also getting a little more of Bal's actual personality here, though it's still hard to tell. I promise, snark is coming your way!

Somehow, Gabriel manages to fall asleep. He knocks out cold on top of the duvet, his shoes barely kicked off, and six seconds – hours? – later, he’s rubbing sleep out of his eyes and wondering if he spent half the night licking the bottom of people’s shoes. 

There’s a rustling in the room somewhere. 

He groans. 

Right. _Fuck._ The slave. 

_His_ slave. 

Rolling over, he blinks until he can see the ceiling clearly. Waits till his headache dissipates enough that he can form a coherent thought or two. Then he sits up – instantly regrets it, of course, the room spinning around him like he’s on a fucking merry-go-round. 

Blearily, he looks around until he spots the omega in question. The man hasn’t moved very far. He’s just scooted a few feet, his back now pressed into the corner of the L-shaped sofa. He’s staring straight at Gabriel, knees tucked under him again even though he’s pretty sure he _told_ him to sit. 

He also doesn’t look very drugged, anymore. Which may not be a good thing, because what he _does_ look like is a cornered dog that’s contemplating escape routes. 

Gabriel groans again, scrubbing a hand over his face. Maybe if he does that for long enough, and wishes hard enough, when he opens his eyes the omega will be gone. 

No such luck. Balthazar is glaring at him, very much still present. 

Damn. 

“Are you hungry?”

He doesn’t know what possesses him to ask that, other than that he personally is realizing that he’s fucking starving. But the omega’s eyes narrow as they look him up and down, his hands clenching into fists.

“No,” he says slowly, _deliberately,_ gritting his teeth like he’s forcing the words out, “I am _not._ ”

Gabriel drops his hand from his face, squinting at the man. “How the fuck can you not be…?”

The omega’s whole body has gone rigid. He’s pale, breathing faster. Showing his teeth. 

Scared. 

Oh. _Oh._

“Christ, man, not for…” He presses a fist against his mouth, fights a wave of nausea. Remembers the mostly _white_ puke on the gravel drive of his childhood home. Remembers his brother’s words – about how _proficient_ the slave could be. “Not for _that._ Fuck.”

Balthazar does not relax in the slightest – in fact, his eyes harden even further. Distrusting. He can’t _imagine_ why. 

“I’m… that’s…” Gabriel shudders. _“Hell_ no. No.”

The omega just stares. Stares at him, then stares openly at his crotch. But, eventually, when Gabriel doesn’t move forward – and when Balthazar is satisfied that he really _isn’t_ sporting a goddamn hard-on – he deflates. Sags against the couch again, barely holding himself up. And now that he’s not stiff as a board, he’s back to shaking like the hotel room is below freezing. 

Honestly, Gabriel’s not sure whether the dude slept at all – his bet is no. Not with that feral, rabid-dog look in his eye. 

“I meant for _food,”_ he tries again. “Fucking… room service.” 

Balthazar _laughs._

Just once; a harsh, grating bark. The omega closes his eyes, twists his mouth to the side. In a jerky, half angry movement, he wraps his arms around himself, pressing in tight against his ribs. His wrists, Gabriel can’t help but notice, are rubbed raw, red and angry skin poking out from the sleeves of his robe. 

It’s pretty obvious that he doesn’t believe Gabriel in the slightest.

And maybe that’s what snaps the last of his resistance – the naked hatred on the man’s face. The utter conviction that Gabriel is fucking with him, is taunting him with _food_ when he’s literally _starving._

Even if he actually _wanted_ to try, Gabriel is honestly too emotionally constipated to accurately identify the feeling that’s growing limbs and kicking around inside of him. All he knows is that he doesn’t like it. And that it’s only going to get bigger, if he lets it. 

Without a word, he gets up and rifles through his suitcase, pushing aside his rumpled funeral clothes and dirty underwear till he finds a reasonably clean shirt and sweatpants. He adds a pair of boxers for good measure – clean ones, because _ew –_ and then balls it all up. 

Balthazar watches him warily as he comes toward him. The bundle of clothes lands with a soft thud on the part of the couch that’s the farthest away from him, but he doesn’t even glance their way – instead, his eyes are locked on Gabriel’s hands like he’s sure they’ll lash out at any moment. 

So Gabriel walks backward till the slave is well clear of punching range. Not that he’s got much of a reach in the first place – his siblings ate up all the height genes, and Gabriel knows he isn’t exactly intimidating regardless. Nevertheless, Balthazar’s blood pressure seems to drop a little more with every step he takes back, and he deems it far enough when the omega’s eyes finally flicker away from him. 

“Go. Shower. There’s soap and all that in there already, so use it. And then put those on,” he adds, pointing to the clothes, and though he’s making an effort to sound authoritative it comes out more awkward than anything. “Throw the stupid shit you’re wearing under that robe in the trash.”

The omega glances at the bundle, and then back up to Gabriel. He’d have thought the dude would jump at the chance to wear real clothes, but his face looks like it could have been carved out of a brick for how much his expression changes at the order. 

“Now?” he asks. His voice is accented. Some kind of British, Gabriel thinks. And it is absolutely, immovably flat, neither angry nor pleading. Perfectly neutral. Inoffensive. 

It irritates the everloving _fuck_ outta him. 

“Yes, now. When the hell else?”

The slave doesn’t dignify that with a response, but he does move. He’s already shaking when he stands up, arms trembling when he pushes himself to his feet, using the couch to steady himself. Carefully, he bends down to gather up the clothes, and Gabriel can’t help but wince in sympathy when he sees the bruises on the dude’s legs. He’s got no idea how long the dude had been kneeling, but it can’t have felt good. 

For a moment, he stands there, clothes in hand. Staring at Gabriel like he’s waiting for something else. But when he says nothing, the omega flicks his eyes back down to the ground and retreats to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Gabriel hears the lock click and doesn’t blame the dude in the slightest.

When the shower turns on, Gabriel closes his eyes and rubs at his face, hating how disgusting and kidnapper-y he feels. This was _not_ how this trip was supposed to go. He was supposed to pop in, make nice, secure his moolah, and pop right back out. And _now_ he’s been saddled with his brother’s sick little pet project as some sort of fucked up initiation into Morningstar Incorporated. 

He sighs, loud and long and dramatic. It doesn’t make him feel any better. 

The call for room service goes without a hitch – ‘bout time something did. He orders a bunch of random shit, not really in the right headspace to be logical about it, and has just enough self-restraint to not snap up a bottle of wine to guzzle with his breakfast. It’s no fun being drunk at the airport – he knows from experience – but it’s pretty telling that he wants to get shitfaced already.

If the dude bringing up his food is curious about why he’s ordered so much for, ostensibly, just him, he’s too well-tipped to ask. On a whim, Gabriel asks for some extra towels, along with another robe and some water bottles, and he gets them with little fuss. The pros of staying in a way-too-expensive hotel, he guesses. He drops a couple of the bottles on the table for the omega and cracks one himself, guzzling the majority of it so that the taste of stale alcohol and bile is gone from his mouth.

The only reason he doesn’t strip off his nasty clothes from yesterday is that he wants to avoid any more awkward misunderstandings about why, exactly, Balthazar is here. So, sitting in his boxers and a wrinkled, sweat stained t-shirt, Gabriel digs in. Despite the shitty situation, he _is_ hungry, and he’s pretty much done with his plate by the time the omega emerges from the shower.

Balthazar looks different, in normal clothes. Almost like a free person. If it wasn’t for the collars – both the leather one and the _burned_ one – Gabriel might not have been able to tell the difference at all. Most of that, he thinks, is because this slave isn’t ducking his head or hunching in on himself like he’s seen most of them do.

He _is_ scared, though. As much as he’s trying to hide it, Gabriel can tell. His face is pale, his jaw clenched as he stands in the bathroom doorway, eyes hard and angry and still just shy of meeting his.

“Squeaky clean?” he asks, like an idiot.

Balthazar’s jaw twitches. It takes him a moment to answer, and when he does, his eyes slide even further away. “Clean enough. Master.”

He tacks the word on like an afterthought. Maybe it is. If what Michael said was true, it’s likely that he’d been skating by unnoticed on his dad’s estate for the last few years. It’s been a long time since father had been in any kind of shape to use a slave like Balthazar, he realizes. And he’s glad for it, because it means that the omega in front of him has some glimmer of a personality left, even after _both_ his older brothers got ahold of him.

“Hungry? You never actually answered me before.”

Balthazar looks at the spread on the table silently. His face betrays nothing except a faint sort of skepticism. But he knows that Gabriel is waiting for an answer, so he looks away after a moment and speaks.

“Yes,” he grits out. It’s like he’s pulling a tooth. He makes no move toward the table.

“Well, there’s a surprise. Sit down, then.”

Slowly, like he’d rather be doing just about anything else, he moves toward the Gabriel. Hesitating, for a moment, he eventually averts his eyes and starts to… kneel. 

_Right_ next to Gabriel’s chair.

“Oh – uh. No,” Gabriel blurts. God, he hopes his face isn’t flushed like it feels like it is. “No way. There’s a chair right there, my dude.”

Balthazar pauses in his downward descent and stares at him, eyebrows drawn together skeptically. “At the… table?” he asks slowly, like that _isn’t_ the most logical place for him to sit. 

Gabriel guesses, belatedly, that it wouldn’t be. Not for him.

 _“Yeah,_ at the table. You don’t need to… you know. I’m not really interested in all that shit,” he says, flapping his hand and hoping the dude will understand what he means. The only way that visible subservience like that has ever made him feel is _uncomfortable._ He’s got no idea how his brothers get such a kick out of it.

Still visibly wary, Balthazar does eventually sit down. He lands in the chair with a wince, so brief that Gabriel almost doesn’t catch it. He doesn’t want to know _why_ the dude is wincing, but unfortunately it doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure it out.

Rather than apologizing, or telling him he can go sit on the couch to get more comfortable, or asking him if there’s some way he can help – or _anything_ that’s equally kind and leagues out of his comfort zone – Gabriel shoves the remaining plate of food toward him. He follows that brilliant solution up with a fork. It slides across the table with a loud skittering noise. 

“Here. Eat that.”

Balthazar doesn’t exactly hop to it. Instead, he stares down at the plate with very little emotion on his face. The tiny bit that Gabriel can understand looks a _lot_ like hatred, for someone who’s getting free grub. 

He sighs, frustrated, wishing that the stupid slave could just follow orders like he’s supposed to so Gabriel wouldn’t have to prove there’s not poison in the food or something.

“God, come _on,”_ he complains, reaching forward to flick the fork closer. “I know you’re fucking hungry, so just _eat.”_

Scowling, the omega picks up the fork. He holds it in his hand like a weapon and doesn’t touch anything at all. Just stares at the eggs and the bacon and what appears to be a side of guacamole, courtesy of Gabriel not paying attention to what he was ordering.

“How can I earn this meal, Master.” 

The words are robotic. Flat. 

They still make the hair on the back of Gabriel’s neck stand at attention.

The slave’s eyes are fixed firmly on the plate. It’s not exactly a question – it sounds more like something he’s been taught to say. By who, Gabriel isn’t sure. Could be his original training, could be some sick thing Michael beat into him. Honestly, he doesn’t really want to know, and the last thing he’s gonna do is _ask._

“You can earn it by looking like you’re about to keel over from starvation,” he says, aiming for flippant but sounding much more serious than he’d like. “And… oh, wow. Look at that. You made the cut.”

Balthazar _finally_ looks up at him, blue eyes under long lashes meeting his gaze for the first time. 

From here, Gabriel can see that there are bruises around his mouth. Shadows under his eyes that look like they could be bruises too. He doesn’t say anything, but Gabriel can see the wary surprise there, can see that he’s been caught off guard.

“Just _eat,_ ” he insists, a step away from begging. He’s so tired of this _already,_ and it’s been less than a day.

After another solid thirty seconds of hesitation, Balthy finally gives in. Tentatively, he spears some eggs, slowly moving the bite toward his mouth. Maybe he really _is_ testing for poison, because when he finally does eat it, he somehow manages to leave over half of it on the fork. 

“Jesus, _thank_ you,” Gabriel groans. 

But, at the sound of his voice, Balthazar flinches. And, of course, the bit of egg on the end of his fork goes flying when he does. 

It lands squarely on Gabriel’s cheek. He tries not to think too hard about the symbolism of that. 

Balthazar stares at him, his eyes wide. Frozen. Waiting for him to react, probably. So he sighs, brushes it off like he doesn’t give a shit. Mostly ‘cause he doesn’t. 

“Man, Mikey wasn’t kidding when he said your manners were garbage. Did my old man train you at _all?”_

The instant the words leave his mouth, he wants to drag them back in. He’s being _cruel,_ and he doesn’t understand why. He hates it, whatever the reason is – hates this knee-jerk reaction, this impulse to behave in exactly the way everyone expects him to. And it gives him none of the satisfaction he’d been hoping for when Balthazar flinches into himself, when the color drains abruptly from his face. 

The fork drops from his hand and clatters on the table, and, moving quickly, he places both hands in his lap instead.

“I apologize, Master. I will be better in the future.” His voice is low and shaking, like Gabriel just kicked him in the stomach. He might as well have, he realizes - the bitter defiance from before is nowhere to be found, and Gabriel instantly wishes it would come back. This is _so_ much worse. “Punish me as you will,” he adds, head bowed low. 

_Christ._ If Gabriel hadn’t felt guilty before, he sure as hell does now. The tight, sick expression on the omega’s face is enough to make him want to yeet himself out the nearest window. 

Feeling an uncharacteristic burst of shame, he rubs a hand down his face. Stares at his own empty plate, and thinks about how he’s never had to worry about a single goddamn thing in his life. Thinks about how he’ll _never_ feel as helpless or as scared as Balthazar probably feels every day of his shitty, luckless life. 

“Yeah, no,” he decides, shaking his head. “That’s not happening. It’s really not that serious, dude.”

Despite the reassurance that he isn’t about to be beat, Balthazar’s eyes are still huge, staring down unseeing at the plate full of food. Food that he should really be tearing into like a wolf, considering how skinny he looks. A drop of sweat beads down his neck.

Feeling a little hysterical, Gabriel waves his hand dismissively, wishing that the slave would look up again. “Come _on._ I mean, _egg_ on my face? I had that one coming.”

The omega doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even look like he’s _breathing._

And it hits Gabriel like a _train,_ how much power he has. And how much Balthazar expects him to use it. 

After all, his brothers _would_ punish a slave for something like this. They’d hurt him, and call it discipline. Put him in his place, remind him that he can’t just go around flinging food at his master and can't hesitate when following orders, remind him he can’t be snarky or angry or show any emotion at all. _Lots_ of people probably would, he thinks. 

Balthazar is weak from starvation and lingering drugs and exhaustion. And he’s already injured. If Gabriel wanted to, he could beat the living daylights out of him with very little effort. Just for this. The omega probably couldn’t do a thing about it. 

And even if he _could,_ he likely wouldn’t. The punishment for a slave hurting their master is… bad. Even Gabriel knows that. 

Gabriel scoots his chair back to stand up, and Balthazar flinches dramatically, hands jumping up to cover his face. 

When he realizes that Gabriel isn’t lunging across the table, he freezes again, half crouched out of the chair like he was going to make a run for it but thought better of it. He looks for all the world as if he’s just realized he’s facing off a bear with a bb-gun. 

Fuck. 

Gabriel backs up. It’s all he can think to do to make this even marginally better. “I’m… I’m gonna go shower, because I’m pretty sure I smell like a dog. Finish your food, for christsake.”

Balthazar just stares at him, horror in his eyes, and _shit_ is he already getting tired of that. Being looked at like the boogeyman, like a monster. Because he _isn’t_ a monster. He’s nothing like his brothers, nothing like his dad. He isn’t. 

He isn’t. 

But that look in the slave’s eyes stays with him anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought! How is Gabriel's voice? Is he coming off as privileged enough? Childish enough??


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello party peeps. Hope you guys aren't too frustrated by the irregular posting schedule of this fic - I'm kinda just posting the chapters as I finish them. Surprising no one, this fic is getting longer than originally planned...

“Do I have a _what?”_

The din of bustling and hustling surrounds them as people hurry to wherever it is they’re going, faces buried in their phones or frantically searching for departure times or gate numbers, all of them eager to be out of the airport as quickly as possible. 

_Gabriel_ would certainly like to move on, too, but it’s been one thing after another at this stupid check-in station. 

The woman behind the counter pops her gum with an unamused look on her face, taking her sweet time before responding. Speaking slowly, as if she thinks he’s stupid, she repeats, “A crate. For your slave.”

Gabriel hadn’t really bothered to think about why the last minute addition of Balthazar somehow _hadn’t_ meant he’d need an extra ticket, but it’s become pretty obvious now. He glances back at the omega incredulously; hoping, he thinks, for some sort of back-up. But the slave is a half step behind him, his head bowed low, hands clasped behind his back. He doesn’t even look up, let alone agree with Gabriel that what they’re hearing is certifiably insane.

The morning has been rough, so far. After his little slip-up with the eggs, Balthazar has hardly said a word to him. He’d followed Gabriel’s orders from that point on to a T, going so far as to strip down right in _front of him_ when he’d tossed clean – if too big and more than a little high water – jeans his way and ordered him to change. Gabriel had choked on what was left of his water bottle, face flaming in embarrassment as he’d whipped around to keep his eyes off the man’s goods. 

But Balthazar hadn’t said a word, not even when he’d had to kneel in the footwell of the cab Gabriel had called, not even when he’d been forced to pull the slave out of the car by his arm when he’d balked at the noise and crowds in their terminal.

He’s clearly got nothing to say now, either. 

“No, I don’t have a _crate,”_ Gabriel finally sputters, turning back to the woman. “Why can’t he just sit next to me? I’ll buy the extra ticket, if that’s what you're worried about.”

The employee raises an eyebrow, glancing him up and down. “Most airlines don’t allow omega slaves in the cabin, sir. It’s a nuisance to other passengers.” She cuts him off when he opens his mouth. “No, not even in first class.” 

Gabriel sputters some more. A _nuisance?_ “So what am I supposed to do?”

The woman sighs, tapping a sign bolted to the front of the counter with a long, acrylic nail. The laminated bit of plastic is covered in tiny, too long words that immediately threaten to give Gabriel a migraine. “You can rent a standard crate from the airline, if they provide it.” She clicks a few keys, glancing at her computer screen with a clear lack of interest. “It looks like they do. But you’ll have to check the slave into the correct terminal and sign an unexpected baggage waiver, since you didn’t buy a ticket with the correct weight limit.” 

Gabriel’s patience is getting dangerously thin for a man with no alcohol in his system. “And if I _don’t_ want him in a crate?”

The woman pops her gum again, clearly bored. “Then you’ll need to book a flight with a different airline.” 

Gabriel taps his foot, gritting his teeth. The flight from the East coast to the West is nearly eight hours long, and the thought of anyone – even a slave – being crammed into what is sounding more and more like a _dog kennel_ for that length of time doesn’t exactly sound fun. But he guesses it’ll be fine – he doesn’t really want the inconvenience of having to find another flight, nor does he want to deal with waiting for a later departure. He’s sure they’ll give Balthy a bathroom break, or whatever.

“Gimme the friggin' form,” he grumbles, snatching it out of the woman’s hand. Supremely unbothered, she doesn’t bother to comment when he grabs up his luggage and turns away with a huff. 

Balthazar follows him silently. When he finds an empty row of seats in the waiting area, he throws himself down into one, tossing the bags down next to him on the floor. The paper crinkles in one hand as he digs in his bag for a pen with the other. He hears some shuffling next to him. 

“Oh, for fuck’s _sake.”_

Balthy is on the ground at his feet already, kneeling with his head bowed low. His hands are in his lap, palms on his legs. 

A muscle in Gabriel’s jaw jumps. “There’s a goddamned chair _right next to me.”_

The slave doesn’t move, other than to duck his head a little lower. Gabriel’s patience is so thin it must be transparent – he nudges Balthazar’s leg a bit with the toe of his sneaker. “Did you hear me?”

“... Yes, Master,” he manages eventually, and shit, Gabriel can hear a _good_ ol’ dose of fear in there. 

Gabriel grits his teeth. Apparently, he’s so scary that he’s able to terrify the bejeezus out of the dude without even trying. Who knew?

Only, now that he’s looking, he can see the omega watching his shoes out of the corner of his eye. There’s a pale, sick expression on his face, the kind that Gabriel could go his whole life without ever seeing again. 

A flash of Michael prodding at the man – of him knocking the slave to the _ground_ with his trademark, careless cruelty – makes his stomach twist unpleasantly. 

Slowly, he pulls his legs back under his chair. And Balthy relaxes just enough to breathe again. 

For the longest minute and a half of Gabriel’s life, there is nothing but silence between them. 

He leans back, rubbing the bridge of his nose against a quickly forming headache. “So why,” he finally says, trying very hard to keep his voice level and calm, “are you still on the floor?”

Balthazar still doesn’t look up, though he stiffens a bit. It’s a moment before he responds. 

“It’s… I’m supposed to be,” he says, an unspoken question there. 

“Jesus Christ – says _who?”_

“Everyone.” The word is tense. His tone, at least, is getting more frustrated than scared the longer Gabriel goes without hitting him. Maybe. It’s hard to tell, especially when he won’t _look_ at him. 

“I thought you were supposed to follow _my_ orders.”

Finally, _finally,_ Balthazar raises his head. And, thank God, a lot of the frightened rabbit subservience he’s been dishing out all morning has been replaced with something closer to irritation. “You never _ordered_ me to sit in the chair,” he points out, teeth grit. “Master.”

“Oh, what _ever,”_ he snaps, scoffing as he brings the stupid form with its stupid fine print closer to his tired eyes. He’s not in the mood to play a game of semantics with this fucker. “You knew what I wanted.”

Balthazar glares at him. “No. I didn’t.” 

Frustration rises up inside of Gabriel like a snake – one that seems to be trying _very_ hard to strangle and eat him, or Balthazar, or anyone else that might be dumb enough to come into its range. 

_“Fine,”_ Gabriel bursts out. “Sit and _stay,_ then. Good doggy,” he can’t resist adding, the snake striking out like a whip.

Rather than flinching away, though, he would swear that Balthy _relaxes_ into the cruel sting of the words. He lets loose a breath, drops his eyes back down to his lap without even trying to bite back. 

The snake slithers back into the grass, but the phantom touch of scales makes Gabriel’s skin crawl.

He doesn’t know what could make a man take a verbal slap to the face like that without flinching. He doesn’t _want_ to know. What he _does_ know is that he's having to shove aside a sharp pang of guilt for being the one to do the slapping. He tries to tell himself that Balthazar deserves it for being so goddamn difficult, but the words ring hollow.

“Jesus,” Gabriel mutters. The word is closer to an _actual_ prayer than he’s comfortable with. 

Taking a fortifying breath, he shakes off the remaining guilt and returns to the task at hand. He squints down at the form. It’s an irritating second before the too-small letters on the page start to make sense, but he keeps stubbornly re-reading them until they do. 

Then he wishes he hadn’t. 

There’s a lot of fine print about carry-on violations and fees-per-additional-pound and signing away his right to sue for any potential damage to his _property,_ and with a creeping, sick feeling, he realizes that the form he’s reading has not been printed specifically for slave transport. It’s _just_ an additional baggage form, no different than the one he’d have received if he’d decided to bring home an extra suitcase of souvenirs. 

When he does get to the specific section on slaves, his stomach turns when he notices, under the sizing and material specifications for the crate, the additional _“Items suggested for ease of transport.”_

A leash. Restraints. Specific medications that look, to Gabriel’s admittedly untrained eye, a lot like tranquilizers _._ Since his unexpected “luggage” is already riding in a fucking _box,_ Gabriel doesn’t understand the need for any of that shit. But it’s all right there, in black and white – like people do this all the time.

He glances down at the baggage in question _._ Balthazar is stock still, sitting in what he assumes is perfect slave form. The only thing that might knock off some points from the judges is his expression: it’s tight, his mouth a thin, hard line. Gabriel can’t tell if he’s pissed off or nervous. Probably both. 

“You done this before?” he finds himself asking, waving the paper in the dude’s face when he doesn’t respond right away. His shoulders form jagged points in response, like a dog shying away from a newspaper. “Been on a plane?”

Balthazar’s upper lip twitches in obvious disdain. “You _can_ hear my accent, yes?” he asks, his words quiet but undeniably angry. Bizarrely, Gabriel feels an intense surge of _relief_ at that – anger is so much better than fear. He’s used to pissing people off, not terrifying them. 

“So you _have_ ,” he says, feeling a bit lighter. Balthy clearly survived it once, so maybe it’s not as bad as he’s been envisioning. “Didja’ ride in a little crate _then,_ too?”

He’s hoping to get a rise out of him, hoping for more relief from the weird, ugly guilt he’s been feeling all morning. And his wish seems to have been granted, because Balthazar’s expression sharpens into tangible, crystal clear anger. 

“Yes,” he hisses. “When your father plucked me off the auction block, he was quite happy to stuff me into one right there and _then._ He came prepared, unlike _you.”_

Wish _not_ granted. The low, furious words feel very similar to being punched in the nose – Gabriel would know. 

Somehow, he’d managed to forget that it _had_ been his dad who’d done this the first time around. He’s got no issue believing that the bastard would have come prepared. He’d been _respectable_ like that. 

Balthazar, for all his anger, still isn’t looking at him. He’s shaking, fists clenched in his lap as though he’d like nothing more than to put his hands around Gabriel’s throat and squeeze. He doesn’t, though, even though Gabriel is starting to suspect he deserves it. 

“Alright,” he admits, feeling slimy all over again. “That was a low blow.”

It’s not exactly an apology. But it’s close enough. Clearly trying to get control of himself, Balthy takes in a tight breath and smooths his shaking hands down his jeans a few times. 

His _borrowed_ jeans, Gabriel remembers. Because, originally, he’d had nothing to his name except fucking lingerie. He wonders, belatedly, if Michael had kept this man in a cage just like their father. He thinks he knows the answer.

He glances down again at the stupid form in his hand. A long, harsh sigh rips out of him. 

“Wait here.”

* * *

As humiliating as _this_ is, Balthazar has to admit that it’s leagues better than the crate. 

He remembers his first and, until now, _only_ plane ride. Remembers the cold, loud underbelly of the plane, the turbulence and the darkness. Remembers the way he’d been terrified that the cage would slide around and get flipped over, remembers the way he’d worried that the chain hooking him to the floor would strangle him, if he ended up at the wrong angle, and the way the cold metal links had pressed into his palms when he’d clutched it in sick anticipation. 

It hadn’t been a good experience, by any stretch of the imagination – though it _had_ been an accurate initiation into what his life was going to be like from that point forward. 

Terrifying. Lonely. And out of his control. 

He’d figured that’s where he’d be now. Instead, he’s on a different plane entirely than his new master originally intended, kneeling on soft carpet rather than cold metal. 

They are seated somewhere that seems above first class. Closed off from other passengers in a small cabin, a comfortable seat and a large television making up the bulk of the decor. There’s more than enough room to stand up and walk around – not that _he_ can do that. The _complementary_ – and required – leash that’s hooked to a built-in eyelet on the side of his master’s recliner is preventing him from getting more than a couple feet off the ground. 

He doesn’t care. He’ll take this warmth and light over the alternative any day. 

Gabriel is next to him in his seat, his feet kicked up, a magazine in his lap. Unlike Balthazar, he’s the picture of relaxation, sipping a cocktail that a giggling flight attendant had brought to his private little cabin. His foot moves idly to the music that’s humming from the speakers rigged up around the room. 

Balthazar tries not to shift too obviously, already a little sore from kneeling in place like this – it’s only been a couple of hours since the plane took off, and they’ve got quite a ways to go. His body hurts – his neck, especially – and he’s, frankly, exhausted. He could probably fall asleep right here, if he isn’t careful. That would _not_ be ideal. 

One of the few benefits of being kept at the Morningstar estate was that he had been, for the most part, left alone – especially during the last few years, when he’d largely been forgotten by his elderly master. Lucifer’s short stint of owning him had been an exception, of course. As had Michael’s. He’d very quickly had to remember how he was _supposed_ to act in front of free people. 

And what he didn’t remember, they’d reminded him of. Thoroughly. 

Still, Balthazar is not as desensitized to being subservient in public as he probably should be. That is becoming more and more obvious every time the flight attendant slides the door open. 

“Can I get you something else to drink, sir?”

Balthazar grits his teeth, keeping his head low like he’s supposed to. It’s difficult, though – his first instinct is to glance up, to take stock of his surroundings. He wants to know the layout of the place, wants to keep an eye on possible threats. But he has no _right_ to do that, legally. He’s got no right to do anything except what his master tells him, and Gabriel hasn’t ordered him to do much of anything. So he’s erring on the side of caution and sticking to the so-called training he’d received when he’d first been thrust into the trade. 

“How about a water, dollface?” Balthazar doesn’t have to look up to know his master is grinning – even his _voice_ sounds lecherous. 

“Of course, sir! Regular, or sparkling?”

“Regular, if you please. Cheers,” his master says in thanks. As she hands it off, a drip of cold condensation falls from the bottle and lands on Balthazar's arm. He manages not to flinch. The woman giggles vapidly, probably angling for a better tip. 

It’s not till the door shuts that Gabriel dangles the bottle back over the arm of the chair. It hovers in front of his face. “Here.”

Balthazar glances up at him, taken aback. Gabriel isn’t looking at him – his eyes are focused on whatever muted program is on the T.V. He looks, somehow, almost _too_ bored. As though he’s pretending. 

Slowly, he takes the water from the man’s grip. “Don’t guzzle it, or anything,” the beta mutters, picking up a magazine off of the complementary stack and flipping through it idly. “Not sure what the protocol is for when you gotta take a piss, and I’m not really sure I _want_ to find out.” 

Balthazar snorts, unable to help himself – Gabriel doesn’t react, doesn’t backhand him for making a noise unprompted. That’s… unexpected. He cracks the lid on the bottle and takes a slow sip, eyes trained on his master just in case he changes his mind. 

“Thank you,” he says, after he doesn’t. The hostility that should still be in his voice is noticeably absent. Try as he might to maintain his dignity – the little of it he has left – he _is_ grateful. For more than the water. 

Gabriel just waves his hand, clearly uncomfortable with his gratitude. After a second, though, his cool indifference wavers again. “You really _can_ just sit. I know there isn’t another chair, but...” 

Balthazar glances down at his knees, then back up to the man next to him. The beta is avoiding eye contact again. “That’s not proper,” he says slowly, testing the waters. 

Gabriel just groans, slumping down in his seat dramatically. He drops the magazine over his face. “I don’t _care,_ bro.”

And it seems that he really doesn’t. He’s not sure how there’s such a marked difference between this man’s expectations and the strict subservience and prostrating that his brothers had expected. But Balthazar is not going to look the gift horse in the mouth. At least not right now, when he’s so tired that he feels like he’s a couple of minutes from keeling over. 

So, slowly, he lets himself fall to the side until he’s sitting rather than kneeling. It’s uncomfortable for a different reason, but it’s a relief to have the pressure off his knees. Gabriel says nothing, so he figures it’s safe to lean his head against the man’s chair and try to get comfortable, his legs tucked up against his chest. There’s enough slack on the lead to where he can shift without too much tugging. 

It’s not until the flight attendant knocks and slides open the door that he realizes he’s drifted off.

He startles, glancing up at her. Her nose wrinkles at his improper form, but he resists the urge to scramble to his knees. Ultimately, _her_ opinion doesn’t matter – it’s only his master who can reprimand him. 

So, perhaps stupidly, he waits for the command to get back up. It never comes. 

“Have you decided on your selection for your meal, sir?” the attendant eventually asks with a little sniff, when she realizes that Gabriel isn’t going to chide him. She sounds more than a little miffed, and, as ill advised as it may be, Balthazar can’t quite help the smirk. He ducks his head to hide it. 

“Uh… the lamb looks delish’. I think I’ll have that. Extra helping of everything, sweetcheeks – I’m starving,” his master says flippantly. It’s clear he’s only just now bothered to look at the menu. It could be Balthazar’s imagination, but he sounds a little stiffer than before. Maybe he _is_ annoyed with Balthazar’s improper form, even if he’d been the one to tell him to abandon it in the first place. There’s a sudden, sinking feeling inside him that erases the smirk in an instant. 

But, after she jots down his order and slides the door closed, Gabriel blows an honest to God raspberry. “Uptight bitch,” he says cheerfully. 

Balthazar relaxes. Oh. His master had been irritated with _her,_ not with him. It’s topsy turvy enough that he almost doesn’t believe it, but there’s no reprimanding jerk on his leash. No corrective slap. 

“Most people feel the same way she does,” he says quietly, simply because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

Gabriel snorts. “Boring.” 

Balthazar keeps his mouth shut, even though that response makes him want to ask a million questions. He curls back up and just decides to count his lucky stars that his master apparently thinks it’s _boring_ to treat him like a disobedient pet. 

His stomach rumbles audibly when Gabriel’s food arrives. No matter what his orders had been, Balthazar had been unable to stomach breakfast this morning. It’d certainly been novel to be fed fancy, warm food, but he’d been too nauseous to enjoy it. Both from the drugs lingering in his system, and from the sick anticipation of how his master would eventually decide to punish him for the egg incident. He’d ended up scraping the meal into the trashcan before Gabriel finished his shower.

He’s hungry now, though. He has to work hard to keep his head down, glad that his master is a beta and can’t smell the blatant _want_ that must be pouring off him in waves. He’d be _beyond_ fucked if the man was an alpha – in more ways than one. Luckily, his master is busy digging in with enthusiastic gluttony, and pays him no mind. 

He’s _just_ managed to convince himself he’s going to survive – he’s been hungrier than this before and came out the other side relatively unscathed, after all – when Gabriel leans over the side of his chair. He looks down at Balthazar with his eyebrows raised. 

“Hope you don’t mind leftovers.”

The words don’t make sense until he lowers the plate down next to him. Even half gone, it’s more food than Balthazar has eaten in one sitting in literal years. 

He’s too stunned to take it right away, and Gabriel makes an impatient noise, wriggling it. “Come on, dude. My arm is getting tired.” 

Quickly, before he changes his mind, Balthazar all but snatches it out of the beta’s hand. 

Gabriel grunts his approval and leans back in his seat, kicking back without a care in the world as Balthazar finally eats. He’s hungry enough that the thought of how he’ll eventually have to pay for it stays firmly in the back of his mind.

When the plate is empty – and he is not too ashamed to admit that he _cleans_ it, getting every last morsel – he carefully shuffles up to his knees and reaches over his master to place it on the table that’s sitting on the other side of the chair. No point in getting himself in trouble, should the flight attendant see that he was eating food meant for people. 

Only, he can’t quite get there; the leash is _just_ too short. 

He can’t help the sharp yelp of pain when it tugs his collar down to brush against his burn. Dropping the plate with fumbling hands, he hunches in on himself and yanks the band of leather away from the wound, panic sharp and jagged in his chest. 

The leash remains in his hands for a moment, trembling. 

When he can blink the starbursts out of his eyes and manages to let go of the lead that he _definitely_ should not be touching in the first place, he realizes that Gabriel is staring at him. He’s got a strange expression on his face, one that Balthazar is frankly too shaken to interpret. 

Swallowing, his skin cold and clammy from his razor-wire panic, Balthazar lowers his eyes. He picks up the dropped plate and holds it in his lap again, relieved that it didn’t shatter. It undoubtedly would’ve made whatever punishment he’s about to endure that much worse. 

He tenses, waits for the reprimand.

But, for once, his master doesn’t have anything to say. Instead, Gabriel just takes the plate out of his limp grip and plunks it down on the table for him. Then he turns to stare out the window, his mouth pressed into a thin, silent line. 

It should scare him, that deviation from his expectations. But, _whatever_ emotion Gabriel is feeling, it’s not anger. Balthazar knows that much. 

Heart pounding in his chest, he considers saying something – considers groveling, considers apologizing. But he ultimately decides that silence is the best course of action. It’s the least likely to make Gabriel change his mind. The least likely to make him start treating his slave like he ought to. 

Shakily, he settles back down against the chair, grounding himself by pressing into the soft fabric with his shoulder and his cheek. He closes his eyes. Takes the quietest breaths he can manage, till the pulsing pain around his neck fades back to baseline. 

He shouldn’t fall asleep, he knows, because there’s no telling what could happen. No telling what his new master might want from him at any given moment, no telling if he’ll change his mind and yank him up by his leash after all. 

But, at this point, he finds that he doesn’t really have a choice. 

Within minutes, exhaustion tugs him away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those of you who are commenting! I know this fic is not everyone's cuppa joe, so I wasn't expecting much, but you guys just keep coming through. Please know that I appreciate every single one - they all help to make this story better.


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